


Just A Fantasy

by DJLiopleurodon



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Clint won't shut up, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, F/M, Multi, No Slash, Ok maybe a little..., Playful Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 22:34:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DJLiopleurodon/pseuds/DJLiopleurodon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint persuades Natasha to tell him a story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"My dirtiest fantasy, huh?" 

He looks across the pillows at her, "yeah, tell me. What gets you wet?"

"You get me wet."

He makes a dismissive sound. "Yeah, but in fantasy," he moves closer to her, sliding his calloused hand down her body to rest on her thigh, his fingers almost, but not quite, touching her center. "What gets you hot, what do you think about when you are alone?" he says, lowering his voice, enjoying the way she tenses in anticipation of his touch.

"Well, it changes a lot," she equivocates.

"Ok, right now. Tell me what your current fantasy is."

"I don't suppose saying you dropping this counts?" she smiles; he can tell she's relenting.

"No. Come on, Tasha," he cajoles, "I'm not going to laugh or be offended. Well, unless it's about Stark. You don't fantasize about him, do you?" He withdraws his hand, pretending offense.

"About kicking his ass, yes. About fucking him, no." 

"Ok. Good. Tell me," his fingers are back, teasing her.

"You probably don't want to hear it."

"That bad?" he says, supporting himself on his elbow to regard her. "Ok, now you gotta tell me."

"I like to think about you...and me...with someone ... else."

"Mmmm," he growls, nuzzling her neck, "I like where this is going."

"It's probably not what you are thinking. It's with... another guy..." she bites her lip and steals a glance at him.

"Someone in particular?" he arches an eyebrow at her.

She blushes a little. She honest-to-god blushes. He's seen her flushed before, seen her affect embarrassment this way when she's undercover, but he's never seen her blush like this.

"It's Steve, isn't it."

"Maybe," she evades.

He falls back on the pillows chuckling and stretches his shoulders before turning back to her.

"Ok," she concedes. "Yes. It's Steve. You. Me. And him. That's what I think about."

He stops and considers for a moment. "It's just a fantasy. Tell me." 

"So, the thing about Steve..." she starts.

"Yeah, I know. He's ..."

"You want to hear this or not?"

"Yes. Sorry," he says, chastened.

"Ok. Don't interrupt."

"So, the thing about Steve. Yeah, he's sexy. So are you..."

"No need to placate me."

"Clint!"

He raises his hands in a gesture of surrender.

She sighs and stares up at the ceiling, reclaiming her courage.

"Anyway. He's sexy, but it's such a different _kind_ of sexy than you. He seems so innocent.  And you, you just have always had these knowing eyes; like they hid some secret carnal promise. That was something I always thought about when you were 'just a fantasy,' you know? The things that those eyes said you knew and that I was sure your body could deliver."

"Thanks, I think."

"I don't know. I think it's the contrast. These two incredibly sexy, incredibly different men, both there for my satisfaction.

"Sometimes I amuse myself imagining circumstances in which this might actually happen. But I'll spare you that. I'll just start at the door to my apartment." Her voice drops to a smoky purr as she confides:

"You unlock the door with your key and usher us inside. I pull him to me and start kissing him. You press behind me and kiss my neck and nip my ear lobe. I feel you getting hard and I run my hand over your length through your pants. You ghost your fingers over my bare shoulders and down my arms. I get goosebumps all over."

"You unzip my top and it hits the floor followed by my bra. The rough cloth of your suit coat on my naked back makes me shiver against you."

He knows she editing her story; focusing on him more than in the actual scene she imagines. He doesn't complain. He's pleased he still gets to star in the story.

"Steve kisses me hungrily but hesitates to touch me. I put one of his hands on my breast and the other gripping my ass. His hand is very close to your erection, but neither of you seems to mind. I press myself to him and the feeling of being crushed between you two, feeling your desire hardening against me almost sends me over the edge right there.

"Your hands find all my secret erogenous spots; you always know just how to touch me. He strokes the more obvious places. Your breath on my neck and his mouth on mine— he's more skilled than I expect—I feel like I'm going to burst into flames.

"I move aside and you begin kissing him. You step in close and he's against the wall. He's Captain fucking America, and he's yielding to you. It's insanely hot.

"After a moment's hesitation, he begins to kiss back. You push his jacket off his shoulders and it falls to the tiles. His head is thrown back and he groans as you work your way down his throat with your lips and teeth and pull at his shirt until the buttons give way."

"What are you doing while this is happening?" he asks, his voice husky as he begins to stroke her thigh. 

"No, let me," she says, brushing his hand away, "I don't want to lose my concentration." Her fingers slide between her folds and he watches with fascination as she works herself, his question forgotten as she knits her brow and sighs a small sound of pleasure.

"You both move towards the living room, leaving a trail of divested jackets, ties and buttons. I slip behind him and begin to undo the remaining buttons. You pull me to your chest. While you kiss me, you slide your hands under my skirt and push my panties off my hips, brushing your thumb here," she demonstrates with her own thumb between her lips and along her clit. She moans and continues in her sultry cadence. "I'm so overcome with that one touch, I falter and reach to you for balance as I step out of the black lace.

"Once my panties are off, you lower me to the couch and nudge my knees apart and my skirt to my waist. You draw Steve to you and kiss him again before positioning him before me.

"Steve sinks to floor between my legs. He's unsure at first, glancing at you as if to seek permission. I cup his cheek and focus his attention on me. He lowers his head and considers me and I melt under his scrutiny. When he finally probes me with his tongue and inhales my scent, I have to grip the upholstery to keep myself from coming up off the couch." 

"What am I doing?"

"You sit in the chair across the room and light a cigarette..."

"You hated it when I smoked. You complained constantly before I quit."

"Fantasy, Clint. I don't have to taste it on you. Or smell it. And I don't have to worry about you getting lung cancer. Goddammit, stop interrupting me," she says without rancor. She relaxes back on the pillows and closes her eyes. 

"You exhale and lean back, eyes on my face. I meet your gaze and I get even more turned on knowing you are watching. I twine one hand in Steve's hair and slide my calf over his shoulder. I run my other hand from my throat, over my breast and down to my leg, arching off the cushions." She mimics the gesture, moaning. "I want you to see how good it feels to have his mouth on my cunt."

"Let me touch you," he pleads. He can see how close she is.

She nods, biting her lip. At his first tentative touch, she tenses and gasps. Her muscles spasm around him as he inserts two fingers. "Oh, god, oh god, oh god..." she intones as  his subtle movements drive her over the brink.

"Keep going," he breathes, the words hot against her skin. "I want you to come for me again." 

She licks her lips and brushes a stray lock from her face as she marshals the words to continue. "Smoke curls around you. I keep my eyes on you as I come. Steve begins to kiss his way up my body, lavishing attention on my right breast," she draws her palm across her right nipple, "and then on my left." She clutches her left as he draws it into his mouth and captures her right nipple between his fingers. Her breath hisses in as her hips rise off the sheets. For a few minutes, her account stops.

"Then what?" he prompts.

She considers teasing him with a version that he wouldn't find particularly appealing, but she's as excited by his arousal as by the picture she's painting. Her initial intention of regaling him with a graphic story involving a lot more interaction between him and Steve gives way to something gratifying for both of them.

"Ok," her words again breathy on his skin.  "He reaches my mouth and settles on the couch beside me. We continue to make out while you take his place. You feel so different there, your perpetual stubble on my inner thigh, how you know how to use your teeth just so. He explored; you approach like a master, like the confident, cocky bastard you are," she says through a smile. "Yeah, oh god, just like that. You play me with you hands and mouth like...oh, god, you make me come again, just... _like_... _that_ ," she gasps.

"The first time you get me off, I'm taut as a bowstring, but as you bring me towards the second climax, I'm just so relaxed. I languidly remove Steve's belt and lower his fly. I free him and begin to..." She reaches for him and wordlessly continues the story.

"Now it's just you and me."

"Where'd Steve go?"

"I don't know," she says in a less sexy accent. "He's just _gone_ , ok? That's why it's a fantasy - I don't have to be considerate or even limited by the laws of anatomy or physics or spatial relations. If you want to get to the good part - Shut. The. Fuck. Up."

She takes a moment to recompose herself and resumes her narrative tone.  "You lead me to the bedroom. You smolder down at me. You're so hard." She can tell he's about to interrupt again and she presses her mouth to his, drawing his lower lip between her teeth and gliding her thumb over his glans until a sigh of ecstasy tells her he's going to stop talking. 

She grips his shoulders as she straddles his thighs.  Her tale sheds some of its florid style as she holds him in thrall with her body instead. "I finish undressing you and push you down on the bed. You tear my skirt away and I take you inside me." She envelopes him, her internal muscles rippling as she adjusts to him. "And I start to..." She insinuates her body on his and rolls her hips.

"And then I do _this_ just the way I know you like." He moans as she shifts position and changes the angle, allowing him to move with her. "And then I..." She draws her nails the length of his chest, eliciting another sound satisfaction. 

"I get you so close to coming and then I back off and bring you back to the edge again. Teasing you. Testing you. Seeing how much you can take." Her actions mirror her words. "Feeling your frustration and knowing you are loving every minute of it." 

When she can tell he's aching, she asks "What do you do next?"

"I get to talk now?" he pants.

"No, you get to act."

He smirks as he contemplates this. Lifting her, he guides her to sit astride with her back to him. He braces against the mattress and elevates his pelvis, giving her better purchase to ride him. He smacks her ass and she flashes a look of both amusement and permission over her shoulder. 

"Like that?" Another thrust, another smack.

She arches her back, giving him an account of her toned muscles. She rocks, bucking with each light slap until his muscles begin to tremble with his impending orgasm. He gives out entirely as it overtakes him and they collapse to the sheets.

Recovering his senses and ability to breath, he asks "And then do I do this?" Suddenly, she is on her back and he holds her in place with his weight, catching both her wrists loosely above her head. "Now what do I do?" He rests his forehead against hers and awaits her directive.

"You make love to me until I forget my own name and can't do anything but repeat yours over and over."

* * *

"Be honest, in your fantasy, do you ever fuck him?"

"Maybe," she says wryly. "Do you want me to describe that?"

"Nope. I'm good," he says, "I'm good."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think this one is as sexy as the first one, but I had fun writing it. It was a lot harder to write a fantasy for Clint, especially in his voice. It was a precarious line between the playful banter I wanted to keep and a sufficiently sexual masculine scenario. Does it work?

"I told you mine the other night. Now you tell me yours. What's _your_ dirtiest fantasy." She folds her arms over his chest and props her chin on her hands, regarding him.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Won't be any good at it, for one thing," he says. "You were so descriptive. Not really my forte."

"Don't pull that man-of-action bullshit on me, Clint." She sits up, "I've heard you talk a good game undercover."

"In that case, I would just make up some shit with candles and rose petals."

"Like _American Pie_?"

" _American Beauty_ ," he corrects. "Whole different fantasy."

"Either way, I wouldn't have believed you."

"Right. You tell me another one." He draws her close back down on the bed and caresses her throat with his mouth. "You were so good at it. I want to hear more about what gets you off."

"You know plenty about that. Your voice is sooooo sexy," she purrs, "you could make _anything_ sound erotic." She adds in a more conversational tone. "That and I want to interrupt you with a thousand questions."

He smiles against her hair.  He's suddenly self-conscious of making his voice 'sooooo sexy' for her. "How about this; let me tell you a little about a fantasy I have and you tell me the story."

"You want me to tell you _your_ fantasy?"

"Mm-hmm."

"I don't think I even need you to describe it - I think I know one of yours."

"Really? Alright, let's hear it. What do I fantasize about?"

"You're in Prague, waiting for the go-ahead on a mid-level dealer. But you aren't even looking at that building. Instead, you are watching the woman in the flat across the street."

"What's she look like?"

"Well, she has ivory skin," she trails her fingers along her collar bone, "dangerously red hair and obscenely full lips," she kisses him, hard, hand at the nape of his neck . "Green eyes..."

"I can see her eyes from there?"

"Hawkeye," she reminds, "it's kind of your thing. And you have a scope. Which is actually kind of creepy, even for you." 

He ignores her jab and adds, "She has, without a doubt, the most incredible body: it's perfection, lithe and firm, all curves and strong lines. Like work of art sculpted in white marble, but soft, warm and alive with inviting promise. And her ass... And her tits..."

"Tits? Really, Barton, really?" she scoffs.

"Like that? I didn't even need a thesaurus."

"At any point, does her twin-sister-roommate show up?"

"Nat, _you_ are the one with the three-way."

"Can I go on, or are you telling this story now?"

"Please continue."

"She's several floors up and your nest is the only vantage point from which she can be seen so she's putting on this show just for you. She opens the bathroom door and slips out of her clothes, treating you to the briefest glimpse of her body as she steps into the shower. You imagine the water sluicing over her skin, soap sliding over her like hands; like your hands."

She tilts her face and runs her fingers through her hair, mimicking the ecstasy of hot water coursing over her body.  He begins to explore her, starting with feather-light caresses along the lines of her back. 

"She emerges in just a towel. You watch transfixed as she pulls it away and begins drying her hair; her breasts quiver with the movement. Resting on the edge of the bed, she extends a shapely leg, rolling on silk stockings and attaching them to a black lace garter belt." She smirks at the noise he makes at the mention of the garter belt; he always seems fascinated whenever she wears one.

Calloused fingers grow more urgent and insistent, massaging sinuous shoulders and proceeding to the narrowing of her waist and the swell of her hip.

"She puts on no panties. She faces the window as she slowly draws her bra on, knees slightly apart. You want so much to see between those creamy thighs, but she's turned just out of view. " She shifts her hips away from his questing, denying him.

She rests her cheek on his chest and takes him, already growing hard, in her hands. "She slips into her dress, arches her back as she zips tight the fabric encircling body. She sways to unheard music and takes a sip from a glass of wine, baring the curve of her throat for you. Ok, your turn."

He swallows thickly. "Yeah," he nods. "Ok. She ... Oh, god, I'm not sure I can ... with you doing that."  He rises into her touch.

"Do you want me to stop?" she arcs her thumb over his most sensitive spot and his sharp intake of breath answers her question. "I want to hear what happens next, so I'll stop distracting you." 

He quickly continues, "She steps lightly to the door and emerges on the street a few minutes later. Impulsively, I drop a line from my nest and rappel down, leaving my bow, commlink, everything. "

Continuing to slowly stroke him, her lips leave a trail of soft kisses and warm breath on his neck and face.

"She sits alone at a bar, demurely siping a drink, her legs crossed lady-like. As I walk in, she gazes at me over the rim of her glass. Jesus, that feels good. I slide onto the stool beside her."

She halts her progress along his jaw. "In your tac-gear?"

"What? No, I have a suit on now, the grey one you like."

"Where did you..."

"It was under my gear. James Bond can do it, why can't I?"

"What do you say to this mystery woman?"

His mouth goes dry in mild panic. In his head, the scene skips from a little mutual eye-fucking followed by her leaving the bar with him without a backward glance.

"Hi."

"You say, 'hi'" she says dubiously.

"Sure, it's my fantasy, I just have to _imagine_ I'm suave, I don't actually have to _be_ suave. We talk, I buy her a drink... Mmm, please don't stop." He pauses to grope for the next sentence.  "This is harder than you made it seem," he grumbles.

"She seems pretty easy," she observes, dryly.

"Oh, not at all. She's sophisticated and engaging and funny, and she's so much sexier up close." He brushes a lock of hair away from her face, and holds her gaze. "But when she meets my eyes, I see she wants me as badly as I want her. She throws a glance over her shoulder at the door, a sly, knowing smile on her lips."

"We stumble through the door of the flat, she grips my tie to keep my mouth on hers.  I fumble to close the door and to kick off my shoes without releasing her. We fall back onto the couch with her laying on my chest. She kisses me, all urgent lips and tongue." In one smooth movement, she finds herself on his chest, his hardness insistent against her, his mouth crashing on hers.

"Now what?" he says, breathless, sometime later.

"Leading her to the bedroom, you let her push you against the pillows. She guides your hands back to the ornate metal bed frame where she expertly binds your wrists among the bars with a scarf. You test the knots - they hold firm.

"She unbuttons your shirt and loosens your tie before returning to the foot of the bed. With painstaking attention, she removes her dress, now just in her bra and garter belt.

"'I know you were watching me,' she says, 'Did you like what you saw?'

"You nod.

"'Well, I think I've let you look long enough.' She removes your tie and secures it over your eyes.

"You feel her breasts crush against your face as she leans toward your bound hands. She takes a finger into her mouth, sucking and swirling her tongue. She nips at the hardened flesh.

"'You obviously work with your hands,' she purrs, "I love a man who can put his fingers to good use.'"

She lays back on the pillows and huffs a disappointed sigh, "This is getting sort of soft-core, isn't it?"

"I asked you to tell me a story. This is a story. It's kinda hot," he shrugs.

"Kind of? I asked for one of your real fantasies, not some made-up _American Hustle_ crap."

"It's _American Beau_... It doesn't even have anything to do with... You are the one who started.... Never mind. Ok," he concedes. "I don't know how appealing you'll find this, but this is one of my favorites. The mission that went south in Sarajevo..."

"The one where HYDRA agents beat the hell out of you and we got out about five minutes before they were going to shoot us?"

"Yeah, that one."

She flashes back to that ill-fated debacle. The only survivors of a fierce ambush, they were confined in a windowless, steel-doored closet in a dank basement, handcuffed. Before she could maneuver enough to access the lock picks hidden in the palm of his archery glove, they dragged him away for 'interrogation'. After a sickening 45 minutes, they tossed him back in, bound hand and foot to a metal chair, beaten and bloody. They took his flak vest, but they left his gloves. She managed to get the lock picks and subdue the guards just as their would-be executioners rounded the corner. The ensuing shoot-out still might have ended badly if not for the SHIELD extraction team.

"What could possibly be sexy about that?"

They lay so their noses nearly touch. This close, she can see the scars on his face he earned on that mission. "We know we are about to die, and all we want is one last time together."

"Oh," she says, voice small.

"It's dirty and desperate and extremely hot."

"Ok, let's hear it."

"I'm tied to the chair. They've underestimated you—your hands are cuffed behind you but you are otherwise free. You examine the extent of my injuries. I know they are bad. You know they are bad, but you try not to let the concern show." His hands skim over her flesh, a shiver of anticipation runs through her.

"You kiss around the worst of the cuts. Your lips are so soft on my bruised skin." He cups her breast, flicking his thumb across her nipple as it pebbles at his touch. "You find all the undamaged places and offer relief to the bruises with your warm breath.

"You sit across my thighs. I bury my face against your neck. You smell so good; gunpowder, sweet sweat, whatever the hell it is you put in your hair, your own Natasha smell. I trail my tongue from your collar bone, along your beautiful neck and up to your ear, nipping at your earlobe." Emulating this, the account stops while his hand drifts down her belly, coaxing her thighs farther apart. She opens to him, arching her back and curling into his kiss.

"You grind your center against my torso; it hurts—they hit me in the stomach a lot—but I press into you anyway, feeling your heat." The heel of his hand against her draws a  sound of need and promise. "You moan like that, and I'm suddenly straining against you.

"You slip off my lap, crouching between my legs, and slide your cheek along my inner thigh. You use the tip of your tongue to pull the zipper into your mouth. You hold it between your teeth, and draw it down. A deft movement with your lips and I'm free, fully erect and waiting. 

"You pause before taking me into your mouth, meeting my eyes with such hunger, such desperation, my hands ache to explore your body, to pull you to me. When you finally touch my cock with your lips, it's, well, it's always awesome, but this time, it's mind blowing."

"Is that what you want me to do now?"

"Yes," he breathes, "please."

"Say it."

"I want you to put your mouth on me, Natasha." 

He twines his fingers in her hair as she slides down his body. He groans when the warmth of her mouth envelopes him, scorching pleasure washing over him.

When he's gasping, she ceases her ministration, prompting him to continue. Her smile quirks up at his moan of loss. 

He exhales his aching frustration. "I come but am ready for you again almost instantly. And before you comment on _that—_ fantasy."

She arches one eyebrow as if to say, _did I say anything? Now you are interrupting yourself?_

He draws a deep breath and tries to resume his seductive tone after the moment of self-depreciation. "You return to straddling my lap, kissing me like its the last time, because it is. You take my lip into your mouth, your talented tongue soothing my broken skin." He pulls her back up onto his chest, kissing her hungrily.

"With painstaking care, you slide..."

"How did we get my clothes off?"

"What was that you said? In a fantasy, you aren't limited by the laws of anatomy or spatial relations? Well, I'm not limited by barriers as inconsequential as pants," he says smugly.

"Fair enough."

"Your strong legs support you as you..."

"Do all the work."

At his look of irritation, she adds, "it's annoying to be interrupted during the good part, isn't it?"

He reclaims her mouth and rolls them over by way of an answer, keeping most of his weight on his elbows, but still pressing heavily on her small frame. "Maybe I'm done talking. Man-of-action, right?"

* * *

"Do you have other in-the-line of duty fantasies?"

She half-expects a juvenile response, but he simply asks, "Like what?"

"Like in the decon chamber, or against a tree in the Columbian jungle or undercover in an arms dealer's strip club?" * 

"No, but those _do_ sound pretty hot."

"So, how was it to tell the story?" she asks.

"Pretty damn hot," he admits.

"Not your dirtiest fantasy, though."

"Not by a long shot."


	3. Chapter 3

"Are you staring at my tits, Barton?"

She stretches the sleep away with an arch of her spine, her skin cooling as she disengages from the comforting heat of his body. A subtle shift in his steady breathing is her only indication he's awake.

"Yes." Then he adds, "thought you hated that word."

"I do. But you seem to like it," a teasing smile, but she keeps her eyes shut as continues to work spots that stiffened during the night.

"I said it _once_ last night. I suppose I should have said 'creamy, coral-tipped orbs heaving like a summer squall.' Or there's always 'willing love grotto.' Better?"

She laughs. He loves it when she laughs like that; smoky, genuine and unreserved. "Where did _that_ come from?"

He mumbles something about a long stakeout in a room with nothing but harlequin romances.

"Then you should be a smutty story expert."

"No, I pretty much shot my load on those two phrases."

"Jesus, Clint."

"Yep, if you want a story from me, it's all vulgarity from here on out." He folds his hands behind his head, exaggerating an attitude of self-satisfaction.

"You know, I could probably out-vulgar you. In at least three languages."

"Drink me under the table, maybe. I'm a carnie and...well, ok, Russian underworld." She nods at him. "Yeah, you could probably keep up..."

They decide this is probably a question best left unanswered.

"It's your turn for a fantasy, anyway."

Dryly, she asks, "Is this going to be a _thing_ now?"

"Tasha, how is it a thing for me to engage you in _conversation_?" he asks peaceably.

"I don't think dirty talk really qualifies as conversation," she protests. "Besides, aren't men are supposed to have a whole catalogue of fantasies..."

"Right, right. It's supposed to be me with the threesome thing. What is it with you and that?"

"You brought it up this time."

"Eh, once you've done it..."

"You never told me about that." But, then, she'd never asked. Deposing each other about their "numbers" and exploits was probably a worse idea than a lewdness and profanity and/or a drinking contest.

"Yeah, well, back in the circus, there were these twins," he glances over to see if she's going to react. "Siamese twins."

"I think they prefer to be called 'conjoined twins,'" she says, impassive.

"So, they were _conjoined_ at the..."

She stops him with a gesture. She's pretty sure he's joking.

"It's my turn, right?" she pauses to consider.

"How about something that could actually happen? I mean, hot as it sounds, a quickie in a HYDRA dungeon..."

" _A quickie_?" she scoffs. "Clearly, you weren't holding up your end of the bargain. And, speaking of which, I didn't get to come _at all_ in your story."

"Nat, how many times did I get you off for real after I managed to shut you up?"

After a flash of murder in her eyes, she concedes his point.

"So," he continues, "that is one best left unfulfilled. Even I'm not _that_ stupid. As for yours–even if I was game, which I'm _not_ –Steve wouldn't be. So your ménage à trios is out..."

"Ménage à trios? I don't think anyone has said that since the eighties," she observes. "How do you know what Steve might or might not be up for? He may want to make up for lost time. Or do you know for sure?" She cocks her head in mock-rebuke. "You hit on him, didn't you?"

"No," he laughs uncomfortably at the thought of propositioning Steve Rogers. "Sexually harassing Captain America–that shit probably gets you deported. But, I _did_ see how freaked out he got after Tony tried to introduce him to internet porn. I think he pounded that heavy bag for at least two hours."

"Guess he had to beat something."

He makes a disinterested sound, regretting the mention of their team leader. "Now who's vulgar?"

"You're jealous, aren't you?"

"No," he says emphatically.

She looks at him askance, raising her eyebrow in her annoyingly sexy way.

"Yes. Maybe. A little." She smirks at what can only be described as petulance in his voice.

She scoots closer and puts her head on his shoulder, plucking at a strand of her hair clinging to his skin and flicking it away.

"It's sort of hot that you are jealous."

"Whatever."

"No, I mean it. It turns me on." She swings her leg across his waist and slides her thigh down his body. "And you are so," she walks her fingers from his navel up to the middle of his chest, "so," continuing to his chin, "very," she taps his nose with uncharacteristic coquettishness, "jealous."

He snorts away the touch. "Tasha, I'm jealous pretty much every time you walk out the door in that catsuit. Or, in anything, really. But I know that it's my bed you're in. Otherwise, I think I'd make myself crazy."

"This is _my_ bed," she corrects.

"So, you get off at the thought of making me jealous?"

She rolls back to her side of the bed and lays on her stomach, resting her chin on the crook of her arm. "No, I get off thinking about what it will make you do to me."

He smirks lopsided at her, curious to see where she's going with this, "Ok, then. What I am I going to do to you?"

"Don't you want to know why you are so jealous?"

"Alright. Why am I so jealous?" he indulges, "What are you going to do?"

"Oh, I've already done it."

He raises his eyebrows inquiringly. She tucks her face into her arm, pretending to hide a guilty smile, but knowing damn well he can see it.

"Remember that fundraiser at Senator Woodard's estate with the possible AIM-affiliates last month?"

"Yeah, it sucked. I sat in a damn tree all night and watched you dance with Steve and ..."

He yawns hugely while continuing to talk, but she cuts him off, "he had his hands all over me, and you had to watch. Tell me, what else about such a routine undercover made you so upset?"

"I got six spider bites," he complains lamely.

She smiles and nudges him. "You knew it was a ruse. You knew that his hands were on me as part of the mission. That I gazed up at him like that to deflect suspicion. That he held me against his chest to get an unobstructed view of the hallway leading to Woodard's study. That I whispered in his ear only to relay observations. But you were burning with resentment that he was down there with me and you were up in a tree."

"With spiders," he interjects, but she ignores him.

"I knew you were watching us," she confides, her voice seductive as she edges back towards him. "I could feel you glaring at his hand draped casually on my hip. But I knew that's not what made you angry. It was my hand on top of his, making sure it stayed there, as though I was enjoying the sensation of his hand on me. I kind of was, too."

She cuts her eyes to him, but, nonplussed, he doesn't take the bait.

"His hand stayed there as I let him guide me onto the dance floor. That gown was cut so low, he froze when his fingers made contact with my bare skin. To remind him keep our cover, I drew his head down, and I was sure you could read my lips as I whispered:

" _If you take that hand off my ass, I will break it in nine places_. He laughed nervously but then confidently curled his fingers against me, anchoring his hold on me.

"I felt your anger from across the lawn. God, I got so hot thinking about you out there, furious but duty-bound to keep watching him touch me."

"Tasha, this isn't a fantasy; this is what hap..."

"Don't interrupt me, Clint. Not. One. Word."

"Or what?" he prods, still drawing circles on her back.

"I'll tell Tony who's been hacking into his liquor cabinet and taking the Glenmorangie 25," she promises smugly, "and I won't tell you where he keeps the 50-year-old stuff."

He holds up his hands in surrender, "ok, ok, sorry. Get to the sex part. I was pissed. You were hot. Steve was... Steve. Do I really have to hear about him again?"

"So, you _were_ jealous that night."

"Yes. We've established that," he admits. "You laughed at something he said–your _real_ laugh–and I wanted to throw my comm into the goddamn woods. Ok?" He adds, a little defensive, "you seemed pretty pissed that night, too,"

"I was, I suppose," she sighs. "It was obvious that you were upset and why. And after putting up with Stark and his snarky observations and strained pop culture references about it, I was really annoyed at you both"

"That's why I went to the range when we got back," he shrugs. "I didn't want to take it out on you."

"I really wish you had," she purrs, effectively drawing the conversation back into bed.

He pulls her flush against him, dropping a kiss on her shoulder and prompting, "so, what about the fantasy?"

"You follow me into the corridor; hostility and anger in your stride and in the set of your shoulders. At my door, I jab you in the chest. I start tell you that you were out of line, but the words _fucking unprofessional_ aren't even out of my mouth when you wrench my wrist away and pin it to the wall. Momentarily stunned, I telegraph like an amateur and you deflect. Catching my arm, you shove me roughly against the door." He blinks in surprise at the image of anyone manhandling the Black Widow; of himself doing it to Natasha.

"You silently pin me with your body and your gaze. I still sometimes forget how quick and strong you are."

He preens a little. Exploiting this, she seizes his wrist and bicep and pinions him to the bed. She presses her pelvis just above his, a flush blossoming on her chest. It's not a particularly effective hold and they both know he could flip her off in seconds. Instead, he licks his lips as his pupils dilate.

"I want to protest, but there is such anger, such _hunger_ in your eyes, the words die in my throat."

He raises his head to kiss her, but she presses him harder to the bed and he relaxes back obediently. Her eyes glitter with a mixture of mischief, arousal and authority as she dips to kiss him firmly. She draws his lower lip into her mouth, grazing it between her teeth.

"Your mouth is so demanding on mine. Still in full dress, you crush into me, all flat planes and hard ridges. Through the silk, I feel the harsh texture of your vest against my breasts and its contours pressing my belly, your tac-holster as you force your knee between my legs, your cock insistent against my hip."

He moans as she raises her hips, abandoning him with a single smooth movement. She places one knee on either side of his left leg and prevents him from enjoying the sensation she's just described. Her breath catches as he answers with a upward press of his thigh. He groans appreciatively at the wetness he finds there.

Her eyes squeeze shut and she allows herself to enjoy the pressure, biting her lip white. She thrills as his free hand skims her forearm, rough fingertips on sensitive skin. A twist of his hips and he extorts a moan from her. He wonders if he can break her resolve just by grinding against her, distract her into falling on top of him and leaving the story for another time. At his cocksure sound of triumph, she indulges in one more moment of friction and then breaks the contact. She straddles his hips then and holds him in place with her calves and ankles.

He should fucking know better than to challenge Natasha Romanoff.

"You deftly immobilize both my wrists with one hand. You angrily thumb the scanner and the door bangs open. I almost stumble as you back me inside and I catch your shoulders for balance. Three long strides and you slam me against the closet..."

"Don't you have a cache of C4 in there? I keep telling you..."

"Fantasy, Barton," she scolds, resting her forehead against his with an expression of reproach. "Hot sex and some really fucking expensive scotch on the line and you are _still_ interrupting?"

"... _nottostorethatwithyourarsenal_ ," he finishes quickly before making a show of compressing his lips silent.

"You slam me against the closet," she repeats," trapping my hands between us. You kick the door shut and brace on either side of my head. I'm breathless with need and your weight on my chest. I arch wantonly, baring my throat to you. You mark me with your lips and your teeth; a livid proclamation for everyone to see and then soothe the bruise with a slow caress of your tongue."

She draws a line with from his jaw to neck, worrying the corded muscle where it joins his shoulder. It will later occur to him that, while her enhanced system will clear up the hickey she described in a few hours, he'll have his for days. At this moment, though, it's certainly not uppermost in his thoughts.

"You can't find the zipper on my dress. Before I can stop you, the silk parts like tissue paper. I'm completely exposed, the remains of the designer dress at your feet. Your eyes darken as you realize I'm wearing nothing but my garter belt and stockings."

Possibly the only thing he preferred to naked Natasha was Natasha in only her lace garter belt with dual knife holsters and inner-thigh gun holster and a pair of silk stockings. Honestly, the lace and leather lingerie figured into a lot of his fantasies—the sleek hose on his ass as she wraps her legs aground him, the stiff holsters against his hips; the scene a favorite go-to.

"Still, you say nothing, but I know you are angry that I was wearing it for _him_..."

"I wasn't upset about that. You always wear that when you are undercover in formals," he breaks in.

" _That's_ the part you are objecting to?"

Chastened, he adds wistfully, "I kinda wish you were wearing it now." He strokes her thigh where the stockings would be.

She writhes against him, making prolonged contact with his erection, "do you want me to stop and get it?"

"No," he says hoarsely.

"Done talking?"

"Yes."

"With a trail of open-mouthed kisses, you fall to your knees before me. Your hand snakes up my body, palming and pinching my breast. My nipples harden against the leather of your glove and your calloused skin. Your other hand braces me against the wall."

She travels slowly down his body, kissing along his sternum and stomach. Transfixed, he watches her progress, biting his lip as she brushes against him cursorily, twisting towards her and groaning in anticipation.

"I moan as you detour towards the juncture of my hip, your tongue traces a line towards my center. Your eyes flick up to mine and you hold my gaze as you travel back to my hip, defiant. You linger, nipping, licking the sensitive skin, back and forth, never venturing near enough."

His breath hitches each time she approaches and hisses out each time she retreats, denying him as he denies her in the story. "Frustrated with your teasing, I tangle my fist in your hair. Pleading for you to touch me." He gently runs his fingers in her hair, unsure how far she wants him to go.

With a wicked grin, she tosses her hair from his grasp. She brushes her breasts against him as she rises up and looks down at his body tensed and stretched out beneath her.

"Suddenly, I can't get your clothes off fast enough. Pulling you up by your vest, I attack the button on your pants. You pry off your gloves so I can finally feel your hands on my skin." She sighs a soft moan as she begins to touch herself, basking in the heat of his eyes.

He twitches painfully as her hands drift between her legs and to her chest, thumb circling her areola. He sits up and chases her hands with his. He can't choose which of her hands to focus on. He takes her other breast in his mouth while guiding her fingers inside, a low rumble in his chest as he seeks her clit with his thumb and she contracts around their combined index fingers.

Venturing up her back, he grips her shoulder and tries to draw her back to the bed with him. She resists, but luxuriates in his touch a moment before shoving him to the pillows. He falls back with a huff, strung out on arousal and she provokes him with a teasing smirk.

He seizes her more decisively, and quickly reverses their positions. She exhales satisfaction and doesn't seem the least bit surprised. He bows over her, kissing her possessively. One hand holds her wrist above her head and supports him and his other explores her body.

Her free hand grasps at his ass, trying to pull him flush against her. He shakes his head and mumbles "nuh-uh" against her lips through the urgent kiss. She yelps as he tweaks her nipple. Quickly, he relents and searches her face. She creases her brow in annoyance and yanks his head down again. He chuckles at the implicit demand: _ravish me, goddammit!_

"I'm out of my mind with jealousy," he kisses her hard. "Our clothes are off," another crushing kiss. "I'm hard. You're wet," he runs his hand along his length before again brushing her center. "God, you're wet," he groans. "I've got you up against a wall," he settles heavily between her thighs.

"So," his voice rough, the words hot on her skin. "Where is the nearest horizontal surface"

"Coffee table," she gasps. "I want to cry out your name while you fuck me on the coffee table."

He growls approval and scoops her up off the bed. She quickly hooks her heels around his waist and encircles his neck; she hadn't expected him to actually carry her to the living room. He breathes against her cheek as he moves to nip at her earlobe while his fingers dig into her flesh.

In the short hall, he stops and forces her to the wall so he can reposition, crooking her knee over his elbow. Palms against the wall, he holds her pinned, his erection trapped between them. He resumes the brutal kiss until her impatient wiggle urges him on to her living room.

He grunts in annoyance at the tea service, gun cleaning kit and magazines occupying the long low table. He's momentarily torn between breaking character or maintaining the fantasy by sweeping everything onto the floor–and Nat killing him later for breaking her china or splattering the couch with the chemicals. And shouldn't those magazines be in her explosive closet of doom with the rest of the ammunition? She seems lost to his conundrum, but he suspects she's smirking against his neck as he struggles. He flicks the solvent, oil and bore brush onto the offending tea tray and awkwardly manages to transfer the damn thing to the couch. He lets the empty magazines clatter to the floor by way of compromise as he lays her down.

He feels predatory as he adds his weight to hers on the table. "I'm going to fuck you so hard, this table's going to break. And then I'm going to fuck you on the floor," he growls.

She approves with a wanton laugh, first running her fingers through her hair and then reaching up to touch his face. He brusquely flicks her tender gesture away, dives down again and invades her mouth, forcing her tongue aside with his.

Seeking the soft skin of her throat, he wrenches a fistful of her hair to pull her head aside, opening the curve of her neck to his mouth. She gasps in surprise as his hot breath flares along the shell of her ear. He returns her earlier favor and bestows a string of red-purple marks on her pale throat.

She moans ecstatically, but tries to squirm away from his ruthless assault when his stubbled jaw chafes her skin. He resists her attempts and leans more heavily into her, securing her against the tabletop. He gifts her with one more unmistakable imprint before releasing his grip on her hair and making a slow descent.

He covers her hands with his on the edge of the table, pinning them. His lips skitter along her clavicle. She shivers with anticipation and bucks against him as his mouth closes over her right breast. He strokes her with his tongue, occasionally allowing his teeth to graze the awakened nipple just enough to elicit a shaky whimper.

"God, I love your tits," his slight smirk wars with the gravelly need in his voice. Her warm laugh spirals into a moan as need wins out and he descends on her again.

With increasing urgency, he lathes the supple skin. He captures the other breast, simultaneously sending sweet jolts through her entire body as his teeth pulse rhythmically on the other. Her now-free hand clasps the nape of his neck, trying to force him end her torment and crush against her. He holds her gaze, something feral lurking behind the his dilated eyes, and relishes her near-sob of frustration.

"Please," she breathes, "please, Clint."

He guides himself into her with a snap of his hips. Her gasp evolves into a moan and then a soft keening as he begins to surge against her. She gives herself over to him; yielding to his demanding advance. Pushing a damp lock of hair from her face, she moans a plea of wordless encouragement when he finds a favorite spot and shifts the cant of her hips.

Bearing down, he brings her close to the brink several times before it overtakes her, hard and fast.

She cries out his name as she falls apart beneath him.

When the stars behind her eyes recede, she smiles languidly up at him. She releases her desperate grip on the table and runs her hands along the hard lines of his arms.

He admires his work, her pale skin florid and glistening with perspiration, her chest moving in controlled shuddering breaths, pupils wide under hooded lids, lips parted and reddened. His pulse quickens at the sight of her; this woman of ice and self-command, pliant and prostrate beneath him.

He wants to say something clever or meaningful but manages only, "fuck, Tasha."

His lip curls over his gritted teeth as he ruthlessly pursues his own pleasure, spurred by her gasps and paroxysms. With renewed urgency, he moves with her. Their teeth bump together as he extorts another desperate and artless kiss before returning his full attention to her body.

Gasping out his own release, he stills when she follows him, her nails leaving ridged trails on his shoulders as she comes.

Her skin burns against his as he collapses onto her, spent and sated. "My God," he pants, "I would have counted myself lucky to have less than six broken bones and most of my teeth after even thinking about doing something like that. I should get jealous more often."

"Yeah," she says neutrally as her breathing slows, "but another time, I might just punch you in the throat." In one fluid motion, she levers them off the table and his back hits the floor with a thud. "So, what was that you wanted to do to me on the floor?"

* * *

She finishes straightening the sheets as he strolls out of the bathroom, patting a towel against his freshly-shaved face. He disregards her moue of displeasure as he flops back onto the bed. Snatching his towel, she begins to scrunch the water from her hair.

"So... wanna hear about the twins?"

"No."

He continues to look at her hopefully.

"Ok," she relents, "tell me. Where were they conjoined?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my amazing betas: Roar-ra for all her help and to her flare for writing angry-sex scenes. And to ReadItHoney for all the encouragement, great suggestions and for putting up with me saying, "Does this make sense?", "Is this gross?" and "So, are you busy? Can you read it again? Like, now?"
> 
> I had the most fun with his chapter of any of them, but I had some rough moments with it.
> 
> Next chapter is already in process....


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